Lessons Learned
by IWantYouInMyLife
Summary: "Man, you know, that was a really shitty thing to do to a guy. Who kidnaps someone carrying their early Christmas present?"


**Author's Note: I'll say nothing, okay? I'm just gonna drop this in here and run while there's still time. Please don't kill me.**

* * *

Time began to blur as Stiles sat on that uncomfortable chair, hands tied behind his back and ankles strapped to the chair's legs. Blood was dripping from his nose, his left eye was throbbing, at least one of his fingers was broken, and his torso looked like a violent abstract painting. It was bad. Not terrible — he had been trapped in worse situations before — but it definitely wasn't his idea of a fun weekend, either.

Finally, when she walked into the room once more, his arguably little patience seemed to run dry, and he couldn't keep himself from bursting out. "Man, you know, that was a real shitty thing to do to a guy. I had just bought my PS4 — I had it in my hands. Who kidnaps someone carrying their early Christmas present?"

"Guess I just wasn't raised properly," Kate mocked, twirling a knife in her hand. "Besides, aren't you a little old for video games?"

He shrugged — or tried his best to do so with his hands tied up. "Well, you torture innocent people for pleasure, I play video games. What can I say, I guess people find different ways to entertain themselves."

Kate Argent turned out to be a difficult audience to please, because his dry humor failed to get the appropriate admiring it clearly deserved — seriously, people just didn't appreciate him enough, it was just unfair — and, instead, she raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

"It's been hours; they're not going to come," she stated. "If you still wish to keep your pretty face, it might be a good moment to start talking."

"Why such a hurry? I thought we were warming up to each other."

She came closer to him, tracing his face with the tip of the black knife in her hand, going over his temple, his cheek, and trailing down to his lips. "Oh, trust me, we haven't even started yet," Kate promised, pressing the sharp edge to his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, and Stiles had to hold back the hiss of pain threatening to make its way out. "I can go on for _days_ , sweety. It would be much simpler to both of us if you spared me the trouble, though."

Not likely. "Fuck you."

She tut—tutted at him, like a disappointed mother would at her unruly child. "You think you know werewolves because your high school friend became one yesterday, but you don't. In the end, they are monsters — that's all they can be. They aren't concerned about your safety — stop deluding yourself," she said, as she carried on her knife-path on him, going for his neck.

And Stiles was so done with her bullshit. It was enough that she had jumped on him in the middle of a fucking parking lot and tortured him like the psycho she was, but he was so done with her damn speeches. Someone needed to tell her she sucked at them — big time.

"Spare me of the motivational speech, alright? You're abysmal at them — truly horrific. Please, just hit me," he begged, then reconsidered. "Can't believe I just said that. Wait. Don't. I mean, if I get to choose, not hitting me would be pretty—"

The punch to his stomach caught him in the middle of the sentence, forcing all the air out of his body. Shit. She was a bitch, no doubts, but she was a strong bitch.

"Getting on my nerves there, kid," Kate said, and it was clear that her good cop — or as good as she could pretend to be — mask had slipped away because she sounded older and way angrier when she spoke.

"Not cool," he coughed, bent over as much as his position would allow.

"There's no one fucking coming for you. Either give me what I want, or I'll start cutting off fingers. Your choice."

"I pity you," was what Stiles went with when he regained his breath, looking her in the eyes. "You fucked Derek over, big time, yes, and the shit you've done, most of it is beyond incomprehensible and unforgivable, but yeah, I pity you. I can see it in your eyes that you don't understand what I'm talking about. That the idea of unshakable trust it's something you can't even begin to comprehend — it's unimaginable to you. You have no bonds; you trust no one, and no one trusts you. I don't think you ever really feel fulfilled by anything."

"Shut up," she spat, looming over his face in what she probably thought was an intimidating way.

But Stiles had never learned when to shut up, so he kept on going, the words leaving his mouth in almost a chant as he described the picture forming right in front of his eyes. "You have these goals that you set for yourself, and it's about being better than others and being smarter and more daring, but in the end, when it's done, I don't think you really enjoy it. I think you just move on to your next goal. Which is pathetic. Really, it is."

Her knuckles were turning white as she held the knife tighter and tighter with every word he uttered. She was a hunter-turned-werewolf, she was dangerous, and the amount of repressed anger she seemed to be carrying around was impressive even to him, who had met every living member of the Hale family, who, in turn, probably had their scowl trademarked. She didn't know him, however. Kate had no idea who she randomly picked on the streets, and Stiles was quickly reaching the end of his rope.

"They are coming for me; I have absolutely no doubts. And I don't think you understand. Even if you kept me in here forever, even if there were no chances of me ever being rescued, even if they weren't searching for me, even if you tortured me for the rest of my days, I still wouldn't tell you anything. Not a single fucking word." He looked to the left before adding in a softer tone. "They're my family, they're my pack, and there's nothing more important to me than that. Nothing you could say, nothing you could show me, no pain would be strong enough to change how I feel."

She scoffed, but even then still restrained, controlled. "You say that because I haven't even started yet, kid. Don't be so quick to say you can handle it."

"You think this is my first time?" Stiles raised his eyebrows. "You think that with me being a human in a werewolf pack that I haven't been kidnapped before, really? Don't be naive. This isn't the first time your family has tried to get a piece of me."

That information was obviously new to her. Her grip loosened a bit, and she seemed to consider him. "Chris?" She asked, tilting her head to the side in consideration.

What? Was she kidding? "Chris? God, you really know nothing about your family, do you? Kate, Chris is part— has been pack for years."

Her shocked face was almost funny. Almost. "What? My brother would never—"

"You don't know Chris. I honestly have no idea how he survived your family, but he did, and he's amazing and, yeah, ours. Completely ours," Stiles informed, and if his voice went a little possessive there at the end, well, no one could blame him.

Kate began to pace around, going in circles in front of his chair. "Allison wouldn't—"

"My God! Allison has been dead for years! I can't believe you haven't bothered to look up anything at all about your own goddamn family. Allison is dead." The words still tasted bitter in his mouth, though, and the guilt nudged his mind only ever so slightly as he spoke about Allison. Although it had gotten easier to deal with it after a couple of years, it would never completely go away. Not like he wanted it to — in a screwed up way, it kept her memory alive inside him.

"Chris wouldn't have allowed her to die on his watch. Allison was smarter than that," she denied, staring him down, daring him to contradict her, To be honest, it surprised Stiles that the death of her niece appeared to be an actual cause of pain for Kate. He had believed her to be almost detached to all human bonds.

It wouldn't do for her to blame Chris, though. "Don't you dare try to pin this on Chris, you degenerated piece of trash. He had nothing at all to do with her death."

She slapped his face. He spat blood on the floor. "You think you're in any position to be bad mouthing me, kid? Shut the hell up before I decide you're more trouble than you're worth and be done with it."

Suddenly, he asked. "Where have you been?"

"Planning. I wasn't about to come here unprepared."

"Dude, seriously? You had all this time to prepare, and this is what you came up with? Kidnapping me in broad daylight and bringing me to an old basement in the woods? You do realize this is our territory, right?"

She frowned. "I don't see your little pack of mutts bursting to save your sorry ass, so maybe you're all not so great as you seem to think."

"Or maybe they are surrounding this house with traps for you," Stiles suggested. He knew they wouldn't waste time doing that, but it wasn't like she needed to know that information.

"Perhaps," she said, sounding more curious than concerned. The chances of her being completely insane were getting higher and higher. "We'll just have to wait and see. And I can, you know? I don't know what my dear big brother has told you about the hunters training, but one of the first lessons they teach us is the importance of knowing when to lie low, when to wait for the prey to fall into the trap, and when to lurk around and get a clear shot."

"He told me a whole lot about it, actually. Apparently, you were always horrible at controlling yourself."

"I knew what I wanted," she corrected, unconcerned by her brother's assessment of her character. "I was an excellent hunter, boy. Better than most. The Argent name is old and powerful for a reason."

If there was one thing Stiles had learned in his time around the supernatural world was that the older and more prestigious a family was, the more likely it was that they were a pretentious, crazy bunch. The Argents were very much a classic example of that rule. "Yes, we know why. You murder innocent people left, right, and center, and then get others to do your dirty, clean up job."

"Oh, no, kid. No. My father knew better than that — taught us a valuable lesson early on in the game. Never get others to do what you can't. We cleaned our own mess. I've never been afraid to get dirty."

Stiles glared at her, disgusted. "You raped a sixteen years old boy; I think we all know just how dirty you can get."

"Oh, please," she dismissed, calming down once again. Like a pendulum, the anger vanished just as quickly as it came. "He was begging me for it, literally. I didn't have to convince little Derek of anything."

The truth was, Kate couldn't have better timed her moment to strike. Stiles had spent the past three weeks working relentlessly on the wards surrounding the new pack house, and, with it, had used up every last drop of his available magic. However, the casual mention of Derek's name — as though she had any right to use it after all the shit she had done — was enough to bring back to life the fire that had been dormant inside him for the past three days. It was a simmer, a gentle heat, but it was better than nothing. Perhaps Stiles wouldn't have to wait for the pack after all.

"Shut the fuck up! He was a teenager!" Stiles hissed, furious with her casualty.

"Don't get moralistic with me, that's boring," she drawled, shameless. "He was more than eager to please, and I gave him what he wanted. It's not my fault he is dull as a piece of wood."

Christ, he knew he was supposed to keep the balance and protect others, but he wanted to kill that woman so badly it was almost staggering. The defensiveness he usually felt towards any member of his pack getting multiplied by the second as she carried on bad-mouthing his mate. "If cleaver is killing an entire innocent family, then I suppose dull is good," he spat.

"Innocent? You can't be that uninformed about the pack you claim to love more than your own life. Didn't little alpha tell you all about his wolfy mommy and daddy?"

"Talia was—"

"Alpha of the biggest pack this side of the country. She didn't get there by hosting tea parties, I can assure you. Although one would never be able to tell by her image. Her crazy brother was her enforcer, and she was happy to let him handle the more, let's say, gruesome of the trade," Kate informed, delivering the information in a way that clearly suggested Stiles was a clueless idiot. "Did you not know that? Did they neglect to you of the people they killed to—"

It was unfortunate that his hands were tied behind his back because Stiles felt the sudden need to rip every inch of hair in his head. Stiles had met a pretty impressive number of infuriating people in his life, but fuck if Kate wasn't trying hard for the winner spot. "Dude, does your delusions really knows no bounds? Because is pretty impressive to think that you could ever know more than me about my own goddamn pack."

"Is that so? So they told you about the left-hand, Peter and—" She carried on, almost as if he hadn't talked anything at all.

"I'm not opposed to killing, Argent," he interrupted, beyond done with her shit. And he wasn't, in fact, he would like very much to be the one killing her. "I just don't agree with your judgment that my pack deserved — or deserves — such a fate. As it is, when the time comes, I'll be delighted to help put you six-feet under."

"Big talk for a man tied up to an old chair," Kate pointed out, mentioning his position with her chin.

"What do you want? Just tell me," Stiles asked, tired of her mind games.

"What I want?" She asked, lowering her head in front of him to look him in the eyes as she proclaimed. "I want to see the Hale family burn to the ground like they should have been the first time around. This time, I'm going to make sure there's nothing left behind but ashes."

That was all she said before she elbowed him in the face and pain exploded in his right side. Apparently, conversation time was up.

* * *

Stiles noticed, amid the constant litany of threats and curses Kate insisted in sustaining as she beat the fuck out of him, that his pack mates were close. He was far too distracted and tired to feel the proper nuances he should be experiencing from the bond due to the proximity, but it was enough to let him know that it wouldn't be long before they burst inside. Derek still had trouble remaining level-headed — especially whenever Stiles was concerned.

So, in an honest attempt at helping his pack, he tried to gather his magic, forcing it to ignite inside his body when all his instincts screamed against that decision. He refused to be helpless, however. He would not stand idle as his family went against Kate and god-knows how many others she had brought alongside for that suicidal mission — even though he knew she had absolutely no chances against his pack. None whatsoever.

It had been years since the last time Kate stepped foot on Beacon Hills, and a lot had changed in that time.

If he could feel the bond it might have been easier to time the attack — perhaps stall her for a little while as the others cleared out the upper floors. As it was, he could only tell that they were nearby and furious — oh, so angry. It resonated inside of him, feeding his own rage at the woman in front of him.

How dare she seduce a sixteen-year-old boy and use his affections for information? How dare she use that information to kill almost his entire family? How dare she come back to the city and taunt Derek with her actions? How dare she live after Peter's attack? How dare she kidnap him and torture him for information? How dare she?

And just like that, with the emotions of his packmates running through him, loud and clear, it was easy to call for his magic, feeling it in the tips of his fingers, ready to be called up at any second. It burned and burned. It was mostly instinct at that point — Stiles' magic depended so much on intent, that it sometimes overrode his rational thoughts and went straight to his most profound, primal desires.

Kate went for another punch and Stiles snapped. His wrists and legs were free, and she was flying to the other end of the room, hitting the wall and sliding down to the floor.

"Son of a—," she cursed, getting up from the floor and glaring at him.

But Stiles was done. Done. "Shut the fuck up. Dude, seriously, just shut up and die."

He had never used his magic to kill before, and yet, it came when he called, forming almost a shield around him, that spiked in defense whenever Kate advanced in his direction. He had absolutely no condition of having any sort of physical fight with her — there wasn't a single inch of his body that wasn't exploding in pain — so it had to be all magic. Thankfully, Stiles mind was his greatest asset — after his ass, according to Derek.

When Kate realized she wouldn't get through the shield with pure strength, she did what she did best: tried to turn around and run. No way would Stiles allow her to slide through his fingers like that, though. It was the chance he needed to catch her unprepared, so when she turned, Stiles jumped on her back, grabbing her arms and her middle. She screamed, and Stiles tightened his hold. That was it.

She was fighting back, biting and scratching every part of him she could touch. It was an unfair fight for her, however, because Stiles wouldn't release his hold, pushing his magic more and more, the harder she struggled. It burned — there was no other way of saying it. The horrid smell of burning flesh permeated the air around them as Kate skin turned blacker and blacker as time went on.

It was disgusting, macabre, and horrifying, and yet, somehow, also fitting. Stiles wanted her to hurt, to burn in the same way she had done to the Hales. As the fight left her, and her body sagged in his hold, Stiles carried on going, not satisfied until her entire body was dark and charred.

Fuck Kate Argent.

When he was done, Stiles could do little else but to drop them both to the ground and roll to the side, wanting nothing more than to put a little space between them. It was only then that he realized he could hear the pack's snarls and growls around the house, alongside the characteristic sound of gunshots.

He prayed they were all okay.

Thankfully, sooner rather than later, the door of the basement was kicked open, and a werewolf strode inside.

Seeing Peter — blue eyes flashing, claws out, shirt torn up, and blood scattered all over his upper body — was such a relief, that Stiles could almost feel his shoulders sagging a bit. His pack was there; everything would be fine.

When their eyes locked, Stiles wanted to give some sort of reaction, wanted to let Peter know that he was good, despite his fucked up appearance. His body wasn't answering his commands, however, and no matter how hard he tried, his facial muscles would not move in the way he needed them to. He could only lie there, on the cold ground, next to Kate's dead body, hoping his packmate would look at him and understand his struggle.

"Stiles," Peter growled, eyes running across the room in search of signs of danger even as he ran towards him.

In a flash, he was above Stiles, eyes memorizing every bruise and cut, hands going for his torso to drain his pain before he buried his face in the crook of Stiles' neck to scent him. "Fuck," he said, pained. "Talk to me."

"I'm okay," Stiles managed to mumble. "I'm good."

"Shit, thank fuck. Come on; we need to leave," he said, grabbing Stiles' under his knees and by his back to carry him out. "Derek is almost feral, alright? You need to calm him down."

Derek. God, Stiles wanted Derek so much it was almost another physical ache. "I got it."

They were leaving the basement, going up the stairs. Stiles could barely feel the movements, although he was unsure whether that was because Peter was being extra careful with him or because he was still feeling so numb.

Suddenly, Peter stopped, in the middle of the stairway. "Shit," he whispered, before adding in a more forceful voice. "Derek, he's fine. He's alive. You'll hurt him if you're not careful."

The answering growl was enough to raise the hairs in the back of Stiles' neck. It was protective and possessive all at once, wrapped in a dark promise of revenge to whoever had dared to hurt his mate. It probably shouldn't sound sexy to him, but, hell, Stiles had never claimed to be a normal person, and Derek's voice was burning hot no matter what he used it for.

"Hey, there, Sourwolf," he said, trying to go for a casual tone, yet pretty sure he missed the mark by quite a bit.

It didn't matter, though, because Derek was going down the stairs, shirtless and sweaty, his eyes the brightest shade of red. Shit, even his beta shape was stunning. It was simply unfair to the rest of the population how attractive Derek was.

"Stiles," he called, arms stretched out to grab him when Peter gave a step back, putting space between them. Which was clearly a wrong, wrong move to make.

Derek's challenging roar echoed impressively loud in the tight corridor.

"Derek, he's seriously hurt. If you're rough with him, it's going to aggravate his injuries. You need to shift back," Peter tried to reason with him, tightening his grip on Stiles.

"Mine," was the mature way in which Derek answered, as he bared his fangs.

"Just past me to him, Peter. It will be fine," Stiles said, knowing his mate was beyond words at the moment. He would take at little pain from whatever tight hold Derek managed to get him on, if only he got to be in Derek's arm ASAP .

To his merit, Peter didn't question him or hesitate. He stepped forward, extended his arms, and passed Stiles over to Derek, trying to be as gentle as possible. Derek's arm closed around him, pressing against his sensible ribs and Stiles had to hold back a scream. Fuck, it hurt. But it only lasted a second, because he, just like Peter, began to drain his pain almost instantaneously, the black liquid running up his arms at an alarming rate.

Then it got even better because Derek was kissing him. Once, twice. His mouth soft at first, careful, like he was testing something, but then it was demanding and hot, the fangs vanishing away after a few moments, leaving only blunt teeth for Stiles to trace as he touched every inch of Derek available to him.

It was a heady thing, having Derek's full attention as he mapped Stiles body with his hands, his kisses. He was still in pain — even Derek couldn't take that much at once — but it was eclipsed but the intensity of the moment. The comfort of being in his mate's arms, knowing he was safe. He never wanted to stop, but Derek has other ideas because he kissed him one more time before drawing back to stare at his face.

"Stiles," he breathed, almost like a prayer.

Stiles leaned in, so his forehead rested against Derek's. "Hey, baby."

It was a sign of true emotional distress that he didn't protest against the pet name. "Don't do this to me again," Derek pleaded, looking into Stiles' eyes like he could promise to never be in danger again.

It tugged at his heart, and he wanted nothing more than to lie and promise whatever was needed to soothe his mate's worries. However, that wasn't how they worked. "I'm not made of paper, Sourwolf. You're not getting rid of me so easily."

No other words were spoken but a sense of calm enveloped their private bubble, and he could see Derek going back to normal. For a second there, Stiles thought he would cry, his eyes burning as the feelings came crashing down on him, but Peter — gorgeous, asshole Peter — interrupted first.

"Well, that's all nice and heart-warming, but Stiles needs to see a doctor, and the others must be crawling up the walls in concern, so maybe we could move this party outside," he suggested, snarky. And still, it was soft, and when his eyes met Stiles, he gave him a minuscule smile.

Yeah, they were good.

"Let's go," Derek agreed, turning around and going up the stairs. "Kate—"

"Dead," Stiles assured. "Definitely dead this time. Dead, dead."

"Good."

"Stiles, I—" Peter began.

But the last thing Stiles needed was a goddamn apology. "Don't even start with me. I swear, Peter, I'm not having it. That bitch had some sort of deal with the devil, I'm sure."

A snort. "Not unlikely."

As they went towards the door, Stiles saw the mess around the house. There were bodies all over the floor — at least six, he counted. The pack hadn't messed around — there was blood everywhere, on the floor, on the walls, on the ceiling... He was pretty sure Derek stepped over a severed leg at some point. He tried to feel anything other than satisfaction at the sight, but he couldn't. Those fuckers heard Kate torturing him, and they did nothing — fuck 'em.

At last, they got to the front of the house, where the entire city seemed to be gathered. There were police cars, ambulances, photographers, and, thank Christ, his pack, safe and in one piece.

They all ran to him the second Derek stepped outside, heads snapping in synchrony as they caught the their scent. Stiles wanted so badly to hug each and every one of them and assure himself that they really were alright.

"Careful," Derek ordered, sidestepping the group when they converged on top of him. "He's hurt."

"We can see that," Cora snapped back, doing that Hale thing where they reacted to worry by being an asshole.

"Stiles," Lydia said, walking alongside Derek to touch his ankle. Her eyes shined with concern as she mapped his injuries.

"Hey, I'm good. Don't fret, Lyd, you'll get wrinkles."

She grinned. "Shut your mouth, Stilinski."

Suddenly they were in the back of an ambulance, where Derek sat down, placing Stiles in his lap and wrapping his arms around his waist.

"Sit down," he ordered to the rest of the pack, mentioning to the open space on both his sides. Which, really, was all the incentive the pack needed to throw themselves at Stiles, surrounding him at all angles.

Cora, Isaac, Malia, and Ethan sat on one side, while Lydia, Jackson, and Danny say at the other. Kira crunched in front of them, resting her forehead against Derek's thigh.

The experience was almost orgasmic. There were six different werewolves with their hands on his body, simultaneously draining pain out of him. Stiles closed his eyes, a groan escaping his lips without his conscious permission as he sagged against Derek's arms. After god-knows how many hours being tortured and restrained, taking a deep, not-painful breath was good enough that, had he been standing, he would undoubtedly have fallen to his knees.

When a paramedic tried to come near them, their colective glare was enough to send him scrambling away. Stiles refused to feel bad about it. The last thing he needed was another stranger pawing at him.

"How did you find me?" Stiles asked, curious.

"When we got home, and you weren't there we got worried," Lydia explained. "We found your car at Best Buy."

"What were you doing there anyway?" Isaac asked.

"Oh, please," Peter responded before Stiles had the chance, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. "We found your PS4, too."

Derek cursed. "Dammit, Stiles, I told you to wait. You had used up all of your magic with the wards. Couldn't you have waited for a freaking week?"

"Obviously I couldn't." Stiles tried to shrug but decided against it the moment his shoulder hurt at the slightest movement.

"I could've picked it up for you, you know. You only had to ask," his mate pointed out, his hands firmly around his waist.

"I've been stuck inside the house for three days straight, doing absolutely nothing. I got bored."

"And your gun? Why didn't you carry your gun? I gave it to you for this exact purpose," Chris asked, showing up from nowhere. He clearly had helped the others with the rescue, and yet no strand of hair was out of place in his face. Chris was efficient in a level that never failed to amaze Stiles, who couldn't even get out of bed in the morning without knocking something down or tripping on his own feet.

He winced. God, he was the son of a cop. It was embarrassing to forget his gun so easily. "I might have left in a... hurry?"

Peter grinned. "Oh, yeah, the cookies in the oven. They burned, by the way. Not like, a little burnt, but burnt so badly we had to throw the tray away and leave the apartment for a couple of hours because the stench was so bad."

"Ouch."

Suddenly Scott arrived with his dad, both wearing the same look of concern on their faces. "Dude, you need to stop doing this. I thought Derek was going to have a heart attack."

"Shut up," Derek grumbled, like the man-child he was.

His father went from concerned to exasperated in a flash. "You all need therapy; I mean it. I'm too old for this."

"Don't start with me, old man. You're in the prime of your life."

"I certainly hope not."

At that, father and son shared a similar smile. It was relief, understanding, and affection all wrapped inside a gesture, and Stiles felt a surge of deep appreciation for his father, who knew him enough to get why he didn't want to leave his place in the middle of the pack after dealing with Kate for many, many hours. John could see he would be fine, and they would have time, later on, to catch up as much as they wanted.

When he broke the eye contact, his eyes landed on Lydia, who was busy signing a stack of paperwork, a frown marrying her features as the pen ran across the pages. Like always, Lydia looked impatient and efficient — a very impressive combination, to be honest. As Stiles watched her, Chris put his guns back in their holster on his belt and walked in Lydia's direction, stepping closer to her until his chest touched her back and he could rest his chin on the top of her head — a silent show of support. Unsurprisingly, the girl didn't even flinch, but, instead, allowed the hunter to support some of her weight as her free hand moved discretely to his thigh, squeezing it in appreciation.

Since Allison's death, Chris had almost adopted Lydia as his own, sticking close to his daughter's best friend, who shared and understood his pain and grieve better than any of the others. It still warmed Stiles' heart to see how close they had become — neither were easy people to deal with, especially at the moment, with the anniversary of Allison's death so close, but they had found comfort in one another, and their subtle demonstrations of affection never failed to draw a smile out of him.

"Can we go home?" Stiles finally asked, turning to face Derek. "I'm tired."

"Yes, let's go," Jackson agreed. "This place stinks."

Stiles' admission of pain seemed to do it for Derek, because he got up right away, his hold strong around Stiles. "Deaton is on his way?" He asked Scott.

"Of course," his best friend answered. "He'll probably be there when we arrive."

"Great, let's go. Move, people," The alpha commanded, turning to face John. "As for his statement—"

"Take your time. I'll do what I have to." His father didn't even hesitate. Honestly, it was ridiculous how much Stiles loved all those people around him.

"Puppy pile. Now," he demanded, wiggling a little in Derek's hold.

Derek's eyes flashed red. "You have broken ribs, don't push your luck."

"I'm hurt, I can't believe you're denying me the right to a puppy pile when I'm hurt."

"We'll see," was all he said, walking towards the big line of cars parked in front of the house.

Stiles looked at Peter and Scott, who were both flaking Derek, clearly with no intentions of leaving Stiles side for the foreseeable future. When his eyes met with Scott's, his best friend winked knowingly, and they both shared a look, confident that a puppy pile was definitely in their near future.

Yeah, next time Stiles would get a wolf to go buy his PS4. Lesson learned.


End file.
